LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMPOut: Bullie for you... |
by Fay Jacobs |
Texas should change its slogan from the Lone Star State to Waste Not, Want Not. It has to do with visiting Ft. Worth, where I dragged Bonnie to a national preservation conference. We arrived in Cowtown (its nickname) to find a nicely revitalized downtown full of 100,000 beer-swilling, boot wearing, silver belt-buckle clad cowboys in full Nascar regalia. It was race weekend. I could have been in Dover. After checking in at our hoteldecorated with lone star logos on the carpets, bedspreads, sheets, soaps, beer and butterwe headed out to a bar with saddles on barstools, to drink Buffalo Butt Beer under an actual fuzzy buffalo butt on the wall. Around us stood signs advising "It's not our fault if you're not well-hung" and leering cowpokes eager to dispel the notion that the signs meant them. We escaped to the street, where not only isn't it against the law to walk around with that proverbial "open container," it's encouraged. Outdoor vendors hawk chewing tobacco samples. You could just spit. And people do. Besides, where I come from, leather and Levi-clad cowboys strutting their stuff and swaggering into a bar are going to our own Double L, not some Honky Tonk to pick up girls with big hair. Texas is weird. OD'd on liquored up guys in stupid hats, we hopped a bus to the hotel. Two Willy Nelsons, a mean-looking tattooed dude and a straggly-haired woman devoid of teeth shared the ride. "You gals sisters?" asked the toothless one. The eyes of Texas were upon us, so we looked at each other and, in unison, said "Yup." By the time we saw the Marriott again we were in Gayberry withdrawal and took to the Multiplex to see Kissing Jessica Stein. It's about two single gals, fed up with the men they're dating, who decide to explore alternatives. It had the potential to be hugely insulting and terrible, but was instead refreshingly honest, hilarious and plausible. (Hooray!) But the fact remains we were in Texas in an empty theatre except for a trio of 14 year old girls, a straight middle-aged couple (the higher the hair, the closer to heaven), a blatantly heterosexual young couple flaunting it in public, and two lone women on opposite sides of the theatre who probably should have been together. I prepared for jeering. Well dang it, if everyone didn't respond respectfully and enthusiastically, improving my opinion of Texas. After all, Molly Ivens and Ann Richards live there too. The next day, after conference meetings, Bonnie and I hit the Stockyards area with its faux General Stores filled with Georgia O'Keefe animal skulls, expensive cowboy hats and every kind of tooled leather boot imaginable. There was also the unimaginable like a change purse made from a bull scrotum (Waste not, want not). I bought this "Saco de Toro" or Bullie ("Congratulations, you are the proud owner of an original Bulliean actual scrotum of the proud, virile beast that once roamed the range and....") for a friend who'd warned me of such Texas oddities. Next, we waited along the street with the rest of the gullible touristas for the promised "afternoon cattle drive along the actual site of the Chisholm Trail!" I didn't expect Clint Eastwood and a thundering herd, but what I got was three pathetic geezers in chaps on old grey mares helping twelve geriatric longhorns wobble down the street. Frankly, the cattle drivers were extraneous. The bulls were self-propelled. Nobody wanted a pair of long horns anywhere near their saco de toros, so they just kept moving. All this machismo made us hungry, so we headed for our choice of anything we wanted for dinner as long as it was meat. We tried Risky's Barbecue, but knew not just how risky. After we ordered Steak and Calf Fries for Two, the waiter asked "What kind of potato do you want with that?" This confused me. "I just ordered calf fries," I said. "You don't know what those are, do you?" the waiter said, knowingly. "No, I guess I don't," I responded. "Cattle nuts." Now there's no way to receive this news graciously. Suddenly I was in Survivor: Texas. My jaw dropped and I muttered waste not, want not, which the waiter took to mean 'bring 'em on." Our unfortunate experience proves that after enough Buffalo Butt Beer and with enough batter on the fried jewels, it's possible to take a tiny taste of just about anything. Yech. We rinsed our mouths out with ice cream and headed for the Cowtown Rodeo. Now I admit to a long-held desire to see a rodeo. It stems from my repressed childhood when, like lots of other women of my persuasion, I ran around with plastic six guns and a Roy Rogers lunch boxno matter how much my parents wanted me to emulate Dale Evans instead. So forty five years later I'm at a rodeo. It started badly. One of the horses in the arena waited until the guest artist warbling the national anthem got to "so gallantly streaming" and peed like the race horse he was. I'd heard that animal rights advocates hate rodeo culture and I saw why. It was fun watching violently bucking broncos and bulls bounce cowboys into the dirt until I asked Bonnie what motivates the animals to behave so badly. Turns out the poor bastards have some kind of cinch around their privates until they manage to buck it and the rider off. No wonder they're cranky. Can you believe it, we're talking about scrotums again. I don't know why I was so upset about the bull's bullie being cinched, when I'd just sampled his cousin's nuts at supper. I was beginning to despise Texas. It must be said, though, that while the cowboys tortured their mounts, the cowgirls, dressed in silky outfits with fringe, just raced horses around barrels. Girls are so sensible. We had two more days of seminars and sights, visiting Billy Bob'sthe World's Largest Honky Tonk, the Ft. Worth Woman's Club, where until 1999 there was a deed restriction against women wearing pants, and the Buckboard Museum. Okay, there were also some fabulous renovated buildings and wonderful fajitas. On our last night in town, as we faced yet another slab of USDA Prime, our waiter surreptitiously leaned over and whispered "Are you family???" We gave the secret nod and he became our best buddy. When settling the bill, in addition to his 20%, I gave him another tip: "Lose Texas, come to Rehoboth." In a bullie-for-you epilogue, back at the Rehoboth ranch Bonnie went to show somebody our Bullie purse purchase. She headed to the den to retrieve it, returning ashen faced, trying not to scream with laughter. "What, What??!!" I begged, as she howled until she couldn't breathe. It turns out that treating our Schnauzers to those little freeze-dried pigs ears and hoofs from Critter Beach resulted in their having a taste for, um...organic treats. Git along little doggie! There was nothing left of the Bullie but the tag. Talk about waste not, want not. Nuts.Fay Jacobs may be reached at CampOutReho@aol.com. Her car has been detailed and smells okay now. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 12, No. 04, May 3, 2002. |